OVELETTERS OFA 
VIOLINIST i 




• RIC MACKAY 




Paste. ?J?4VT> ,. 

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Book 



Copyright N°_ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



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LOVE-LETTERS 

of& Violinist* 




Eric 



ftM.C*JdweIl Co. 
New York^'Boiton. 



Two Copies Received 
St.. 13 1906 
j Gcpyrisht Entry , 

| if, 13, tjt I 

S CLASS /{ yicNo. 

I IS L U 4 A 

) COPY'S/ •'^ 






xfV" 



' Copyright, igo6 
By< H. M. Caldwell Co. 



Love Letters of a Violinist 



wM—rn 





Contents 


LETTER 




I. 


Prelude 


II. 


Sorrow 




III. 


Regrets 




IV. 


Yearnings . 




V. 


Confessions 




VI. 


Despair 




VII. 


Hope . 




VIII. 


A Vision 




IX. 


To - MORROW 




X. 


A Retrospect 




XI. 


Faith . 




XII. 


Victory 





24 

36 

48 

60 
72 
84 

97 
109 
121 
133 



Love Letters of a 
Violinist 

LETTER FIRST 

PRELUDE 

Teach me to love thee as a man, in 

prayer, 

May love the picture of a sainted nun, 

And I will woo thee, when the day is 

done, 

With tears and vows, and fealty past 

compare, 
And seek the sunlight in thy golden hair, 
And kiss thy hand to claim thy beni- 
son. 

I shall not need to gaze upon the skies, 
Or mark the message of the morning 
breeze, 

i 



#4 Love Letters 

Or heed the notes of birds among the 
trees, 
If, taught by thee to yearn for Paradise, 
I may confront thee with adoring eyes 
And do thee homage on my bended 
knees. 

For I would be thy pilgrim; I would 
bow 
Low as the grave, and, lingering in 

the same, 
Live like a sceptre; or be burnt in 
flame 
To do thee good. A kingdom for a vow 
I'd freely give to be elected now 

The chief of all the servants of thy 
fame. 

Yea, like a Roman of the days of old, 
I would, for thee, construct a votive 
shrine, 



And fan the fire, and consecrate the 
wine ; 
And have a statue there, of purest gold, 
And bow thereto, unlov'd and uncon- 
soled, 
But proud withal to know the statue 
thine. 

For it were sacrilege to stand erect, 
And face to face, within thy chamber 

lone, 
To urge again my right to what hath 
flown: 
A bygone trust, a passion coldly check'd ! 
Were I a king of men, or laurel-deck'd, 
I were not fit to claim thee as mine 
own. 

What am I then ? The sexton of a joy, 
So lately slain, — so lately on its bier 
3 



£H Love Letters 

Laid out in state, — I dare not, for 
the fear 
Of this dead thing, regard it as a toy. 
It was a splendid Hope without alloy, 
And now, behold! I greet it with a 
tear. 

It is my pastime, and my penance, too, 
My pride, my comfort, and my discon- 
tent, 
To count my sorrows ere the day is 
spent, , 
And dream, at night, of love within the 

blue 
Of thy sweet eyes, and tremble through 
and through, 
And keep my house, as one that doth 
lament. 

Have I not sinn'd? I have; and I am- 
curst, 

4 



of a Violinist H£ 

And Misery makes the moments, as 

they fly, 
Harder than stone, and sorrier than a 
sigh. 
Oh, I did wrong thee when I met thee 

first, 
And in my soul a fantasy was nurs'd 
That seem'd an outcome of the upper 
sky. 

I thought a poor musician might aspire; 
I thought he might obtain from thee a 

look, 
As Dian's self will smile upon a 
brook, 
And make it glad, though deaf to its de- 
sire, 
And tinge its ripples with a tender fire, 
And make it thankful in its lonely 
nook. 

5 



iH Love Letters 

I thought to win thee ere the waning 
days 
Had caught the snow, ere yet a word 

of mine 
Had pall'd upon thee in the summer 
shine ; 
And I was fain to meet thee in the ways 
Of wild romance, and cling to thee, and 
gaze, 
Between two kisses, on thy face 
divine. 

Ay! on thy face, and on the rippling 
hair 
That makes a mantle round thee in 

the night, 
A royal robe, a network of the light, 
Which fairies brought for thee, to keep 

thee fair, 
And hide the glories of a beauty rare 
6 



of a Violinist ¥& 

As those of sylphs, whereof the poets 
write. 

I thought, by token of thy matchless 
form, 
To curb thy will, and make thee mine 

indeed, 
From head to foot. There is no other 
creed 
For men and maids, in safety or in storm, 
Than this of love. Repentance may be 
warm, 
But love is best, though broken like a 
reed. 

" She shall be mine till death ! " I wildly 
said, 
" Mine, and mine only." And I 

vow'd, apace, 
That I would have thee in my dwell- 
ing-place ; 

7 



•SH Love Letters 

Yea, like a despot, I would see thee led 

Straight to the altar, with a tear unshed, 

A wordless woe imprinted on thy face. 

I wanted thee. I yearned for thee afar. 
" She shall be mine," I cried, " and 

mine alone. 
A Gorgon grief may change me into 
stone 
If I be balk'd." I hankered for a star, 
And soar'd, in thought, to where the 
angels are, 
To snatch my prize beyond the torrid 
zone. 

I heeded not the teaching of the past. 
I heeded not the wisdom of the years. 
" She shall be mine," I urged, " till 
death appears, 
For death, I know, will conquer me at 
last." 

8 



of a Violinist Hf 

And then I found the sky was overcast ; 
And then I felt the bitterness of tears. 

"Behold!" I thought, "Behold, how 
fair to see 
Is this white wonder ! " And I wish'd 

thee well 
But, like a demon out of darkest hell, 
I marr'd thy peace, and claim'd thee on 

the plea 
Of pride and passion ; and there came to 
me 
The far-off warning of a wedding- 
bell. 

A friend of thine was walking to her 
doom, 
A wife-elect, who, ere the summer sun 
Had plied its course, would weep for 
what was done, — 
9 



#? Love Letters 

A friend of thine and mine, who, in the 

gloom 
Of her own soul, had built herself a 

tomb, 
To tremble there, when tears had 

ceas'd to run. 

On this I brooded ; but ah ! not for this 
Did I abandon what I sought the 

while : 
The dear damnation of thy tender 
smile, 
And all the tortures that were like a 

bliss, 
And all the raptures of a holier kiss 
Than fair Miranda's on the magic 
isle. 

I urged my suit. " My bond ! " I did 
exclaim, 

10 



of a Violinist H£ 

" My pink and white, the hand I love 

to press, 
The golden hair that crowns her lover 

liness ; 
And all the beauties which I cannot 

name ; 
All, all are mine, and I will have the 

same, 
Though she should hate me for my 

love's excess." 

I knew myself. I knew the withering fate 
That would consume me, if, amid my 

trust, 
I sued for Hope as beggars for a crust, 
" O God ! " I cried, entranced though 

desolate, 
" Hallow my love, or turn it into hate." 
And then I bow'd, in anguish, to the 
dust. 

ii 



#? Love Letters 



LETTER SECOND 

SORROW 

Yes, I was mad. I know it. I was mad, 
For there is madness in the looks of 

love ; 
And he who frights a tender, brooding 
dove 
Is not more base than I, and not so sad ; 
For I had kilFd the hope that made me 
glad, 
And curs'd, in thought, the sunlight 
from above. 

He was a fool, indeed, who lately tried 
To touch the moon, far-shining in the 

trees. 
He clomb the branches with his hands 

and knees, 



of a Violinist *# 

And craned his neck to kiss what he 

espied. 
But down he fell, unseemly in his pride, 
And told his follies to the fitful breeze. 

I was convicted of as strange a thing, 
And wild as strange; for, in a hope 

forlorn, 
I fought with Fate. But now the flag 
is torn 
Which, like a herald in the days of 

spring 
I held aloft. The birds have ceased to 
sing 
The dear old songs they sang from 
morn to morn. 

All holy things avoid me. Breezes pass 
And will not fan my cheek, as once 
they did. 

13 



#1 Love Letters 

The gloaming hies away like one for- 
bid; 
And day returns, and shadows on the 

grass 
Fall from the trees; and night and morn 
amass 
No joys for me this side the coffin-lid. 

Absolve me, Sweet! Absolve me, or I 
die; 
And give me pardon, if no other 

boon. 
Ay, give me pardon, and the sun and 
moon, 
And all the stars that wander through 

the sky 
Will be thy sponsors, and the gladden'd 
cry 
Of one poor heart will thank thee for 
it soon. 

14 



of a Violinist |# 

And mine Amati — my beloved one — 
The tender sprite who soothes, as best 

he may, 
My fever'd pulse, and makes a roun- 
delay 
Of all my fears — e'en he, when all is 

done, 
Will be thy friend, and yield his place to 
none 
To wish thee well, and greet thee day 
by day. 

For he is human, though, to look at 
him, 
To see his shape, to hear — as from 

the throat 
Of some bright angel — his ecstatic 
note, 
A sinful soul might dream of cherubim. 



l $ 



#: Love Letters 

Ay! and he watches when my senses 
swim, 
And I can trace the thoughts that o'er 
him float. 

Often, indeed, I tell him more than man 
E'er tells to woman in the honied 

hours 
Of tranced night, in cities or in 
bowers ; 
And more, perchance, than lovers in the 

span 
Of absent letters may, with scheming, 
plan 
For life's surrender in the fairy 
towers. 

And he consoles me. There is none I 
find, 
None in the world, so venturesome 
and wild, 

16 



of a Violinist £# 

And yet withal, so tender, true, and 
mild, 
As he can be. And those who think him 

blind 
Are much to blame. His ways are ever 
kind; 
And he can plead as softly as a child. 

And when he talks to me I feel the touch 
Of some sweet hope, a feeling of con- 
tent 
Almost akin to what by joy is meant. 
And then I brood on this; for Love is 

such, 
It makes us weep to want it overmuch, 
If wayward Fate withhold his full 
consent. 

Oh, come to me, thou friend of my de- 
sire, 
My lov'd Amati ! At a word of thine 
17 



3H Love Letters 

I can be brave, and dash away the 
brine 
From off my cheek, and neutralize the 

fire 
That makes me mad, and use thee as a 
lyre 
To curb the anguish of this soul of 
mine. 

Wood as thou art, my treasure, with the 
strings 
Fair on thy form, as fits thy parent- 
age, 
I cannot deem that in a gilded cage 
Thy spirit lives. The bird that in thee 

sings 
Is not a mortal. No! Enthralment 
flings 
Its charm about thee like a poet's rage. 



iS 



Thou hast no sex; but, in an elfish way, 
Thou dost entwine in one, as in a 

troth, 
The gleesome thoughts of man and 
maiden both. 
The voice is fullest at the flush of day, 
But after midnight there is much to say 
In weird remembrance of an April oath. 

And when the moon is seated on the 
throne 
Of some white cloud, with her attend- 
ants near — 
The wondering stars that hold her 
name in fear — 
Oh! then I know that mine Amati's 

tone 
Is all for me, and that he stands alone, 
First of his tribe, belov'd without a 
peer. 

19 



#£ Love Letters 

Yea, this is so, my Lady! A fair form 
Made of the garner'd relics of a tree, 
In which of old a dryad of the lea 
Did live and die. He flourish'd in a 

storm, 
And learnt to warble when the days 
were warm 
And learnt at night the secrets of the 
sea. 

And now he is all mine, for my caress 
And my strong bow, — an Ariel, as 

it seems, — 
A something sweeter than the sweet- 
est dreams; 
A prison'd wizard that has come to bless 
And will not curse, though tortured, 
more or less, 
By some remembrance that athwart 
him streams. 

20 



of a Violinist £# 

It is the thought of April. 'Tis the 
tie 
That made us one ; for then the earth 

was fair 
With all things on 't, and summer in 
the air 
Tingled for thee and me. A soft 

reply 
Came to thy lips, and I was like to die 
To hear thee make such coy confes- 
sions there. 

It was the dawn of love or (so I 
thought) 
The tender cooing of thy bosom- 
bird— 
The beating heart that flutter'd at a 
word, 
And seem'd for me alone to be so fraught 



•SH Love Letters 

With wants unutter'd! All my being 
> caught 

Glamour thereat, as at a boon con- 
ferr'd. 

And I was lifted, in a minute's space 
As nigh to Heaven as Heaven is nigh 

to thee, 
And in thy wistful glances I could 
see 
Something that seem'd a joy, and in thy 

face 
A splendour fit for angels in the place 
Where God has named them all in 
their degree. 

Ah, none so blest as I, and none so 
proud, 
In that wild moment when a thrill 
was sent 



of a Violinist 



FtT 



Right through my soul, as if from 
thee it went 
As flame from fire ! But this was disal- 

low'd ; 
And I shall sooner wear a winter 
shroud 
Than thou revoke my doom of banish- 
ment. 



2 3 



SH Love Letters 



LETTER THIRD 

REGRETS 

When I did wake, to-day, a bird of 
Heaven, 
A wanton, woeless thing, a wandering 

sprite, 
Did seem to sing a song for my 
delight ; 
And, far away, did make its holy steven 
Sweeter to hear than lute-strings that are 
seven ; 
And I did weep thereat in my despite. 

O glorious sun! I thought, O gracious 
king 
Of all this splendour that we call the 
earth ! 

24 



of a Violinist l# 

For thee the lark distils his morning 
worth, 
But who will hear the matins that I 

sing? 
Who will be glad to greet me in the 
spring, 
Or heed the voice of one so little 
worth ? 

Who will accept the thanks I would 
entone 
For having met thee? and for having 

seen 
Thy face an instant in the bower 
serene 

Of perfect faith? The splendour was 
thine own, 

The rapture mine; and Doubt was over- 
thrown, 



25 



#? Love Letters 

And Grief forgot the key-note of its 
threne. 

I rose in haste. I seiz'd, as in a trance, 
My violin, the friend I love the best 
(After thyself, sweet soul!) and 
wildly press'd, 
And firmly drew it, with a master's 

glance, 
Straight to my heart! The sunbeams 
seem'd to dance 
Athwart the strings, to rob me of my 
rest. 

For then a living thing it did appear, 
And every chord had sympathies for 

me; 
And something like a lover's lowly 
plea 
Did shake its frame, and something like 
a tear 

26 



Fell on my cheek, to mind me of the 
year 
When first we met, we two, beside 
the sea. 

I stood erect, I proudly lifted up 

The Sword of Song, the bow that 

trembled now, 
As if for joy, my grief to disallow. — 
Are there not some who, in the choicest 

cup, 
Imbibe despair, and famish as they sup, 
Sear'd by a solace that was like a 
vow? 

Are there not some who weep, and can- 
not tell 
Why it is thus? And others who 

repeat 
Stories of ice, to cool them in the 
heat? 

27 



#3 Love Letters 

And some who quake for doubts they 

cannot quell, 
And yet are brave? And some who 

smile in Hell 
For thinking of the sin that was so 

sweet ? 

I have been one who, in the glow of 
youth, 
Have liv'd in books, and realized a 

bliss 
Unfelt by misers, when they count 
and kiss 
Their minted joys; and I have known, 

in sooth, 
The taste of water from the well of 
Truth, 
And found it good. But time has 
alter'd this. 



28 



of a Violinist Hr 

I have been hated, scorn'd, and thrust 
away, 
By one who is the Regent of the 

flowers, 
By one who, in the magic of her 
powers, 
Changes the day to night, the night to 

day, 
And makes a potion of the solar ray 
Which drugs my heart, and deadens 
it for hours. 

I have been taught that Happiness is 
coy, 
And will not come to all who bend 

the knee; 
That Faith is like the foam upon the 
sea, 
And Pride a snare, and Pomp a foolish 
toy, 

29 



•$H Love Letters 

And Hope a moth, whose wings we may 
destroy ; 
And she I love has taught these 
things to me. 

Yes, thou, my Lady! Thou hast made 
me feel 
The pangs of that Prometheus who 

was chain'd 
And would not bow, but evermore 
maintain'd 
A fierce revolt. Have I refused to 

kneel ? 
I do it gladly. But to mine appeal 
No answer comes, and none will be 
ordain'd. 

Why, then, this rancour? Why so cold 
a thing 
As thy displeasure, O thou dearest 
One? 

30 



of a Violinist £# 

I meant no wrong. I stole not from 
the sun 
The fire of Heaven; but I did seek to 

bring 
Glory from thee to me; and in the 
Spring 
I pray'd the prayer that left me thus 
undone. 

I pray'd my prayer. I wove into my 
song 
Fervour, and joy, and mystery, and the 

bleak, 
The wan despair that words can never 
speak. 
I pray'd as if my spirit did belong 
To some old master, who was wise and 
strong 
Because he lov'd, and suffer'd, and 
was weak. 

3i 



#? Love Letters 

I curb'd the notes, convulsive, to a sigh, 
And, when they falter'd most, I made 

them leap 
Fierce from my bow, as from a sum- 
mer sleep 
A young she-devil. I was fired thereby 
To bolder efforts, and a muffled cry 
Came from the strings, as if a saint 
did weep. 

I changed the theme. I dallied with 
the bow 
Just time enough to fit it to a mesh 
Of merry notes, and drew it back 
afresh 
To talk of truth and constancy and woe, 
And life, and love, and madness, and 
the glow 
Of mine own soul which burns into 
my flesh. 

32 



of a Violinist £# 

It was the Lord of music, it was he 
Who seiz'd my hand. He forced me, 

as I play'd, 
To think of that ill-fated fairy-glade 
Where once we stroll'd at night; and 

wild and free 
My notes did ring; and quickly unto 
me 
There came the joy that maketh us 
afraid. 

Oh ! I shall die of tasting in my dreams 
Poison of love and ecstasy of pain; 
For I shall never kneel to thee again, 
Or sit in bowers, or wander by the 

streams 
Of golden vales, or of the morning 
beams 
Construct a wreath to crown thee on 
the plain! 

33 



-SH Love Letters 

Yet it were easy, too, to compass this, 
So thou wert kind; and easy to my 

soul 
Were harder things if I could reach 
the goal 
Of all I crave, and consummate a bliss 
In mine own fashion, and compel a kiss 
More fraught with honour than a 
king's control. 

It is not much to say that I would 
die, — 
It is not much to say that I would 

dare 
Torture, and doom, and death, could 
I but share 
One kiss with thee. For then, without a 

sigh, 
I'd teach thee pity, and be graced 
thereby, 

34 



of a Violinist Hr 

Wet with thy tears, and shrouded by 
thy hair. 

It is not much to say that this is so ; 
Yet I would sell my substance and my 

breath, 
And all the joy that comes from 
Nazareth, 
And all the peace that all the angels 

know, 
To lie with thee, one minute, in the 
snow 
Of thy white bosom, ere I sank in 
death! 



35 



#? Love Letters 



LETTER FOURTH 

YEARNINGS 

The earth is glad, I know, when night 
is spent, 
For then she wakes the birdlings in 

the bowers; 
And, one by one, the rosy - footed 
hours 
Start for the race; and from crimson 

tent 
The soldier-sun looks o'er the firament; 
And all his path is strewn with festal 
flowers. 

But what his mission ? What the happy 
quest 
Of all this toil? He journeys on his 
way 

36 



As Caesar did, unbiass'd by the sway 
Of maid or man. His goal is in the 

west. 
Will he unbuckle there, and, in his rest, 
Dream of the gods who died in Nero's 
day? 

Will he arraign the traitor in his camp? 
The Winter Comet who, with 

streaming hair, 
Attack'd the sweetest of the Pleiads 
fair 
And ravish'd her, and left her in the 

damp 
Of dull decay, nor re-illumed the lamp 
That show'd the place she occupied 
in air. 

No; 'tis not so! He seeks his lady- 
moon, 

37 



#£ Love Letters 

The gentle orb for whom Endymion 

sigh'd, 
And trusts to find her by the ocean 
tide, 
Or near a forest in the coming June; 
For he has lov'd her since she late did 
swoon 
In that eclipse of which she nearly 
died. 

He knew her then; he knew her in the 
glow 
Of all her charms. He knew that she 

was chaste, 
And that she wore a girdle at her 
waist 
Whiter than pearl. And when he eyed 

her so 
He knew that in the final overthrow 



38 



of a Violinist H£ 

He should prevail, and she should be 
embraced. 

But were I minded thus, were I the 
sun, 
And thou the moon, I would not 

bide so long 
To hear the marvels of thy wedding- 
song ; 
For I would have the planets, every one, 
Conduct thee home, before the day was 
done, 
And call thee queen, and crown thee 
in the throng. 

And, like Apollo, I would flash on thee, 
And rend thy veil, and call thee by 

the name 
That Daphne lov'd, the loadstar of 
his fame ; 

39 



#4 Love Letters 

And make myself for thee as white to 

see 
As whitest marble, and as wildly free 
As Leda's lover with his look of flame. 

And there should then be fetes that 
should not cease 
Till I had kiss'd thee, lov'd one! in 

a trance 
Lasting a lifetime, through a life's 
romance ; 
And every star should have a mate 

apiece, 
And I would teach them how, in ancient 
Greece, 
The gods were masters of the maidens' 
dance. 

I should be bold to act; and thou 
should'st feel 

40 



Terror and joy combined, in all the 

span 
Of thy sweet body, ere my fingers ran 
From curl to curl, to prompt thee how 

to kneel; 
And then, soul-stricken by thy mute 
appeal, 
I should be quick to answer like a 
man. 

What! have I sinn'd, dear Lady? have 
I sinn'd 
To talk so wildly? Have I sinn'd 

in this ? 
An angel's mouth was surely meant 
to kiss! 
Or have I dreamt of courtship out in 

Inde 
In some wild wood? My soul is fever- 
thinn'd, 

4i 



#=1 Love Letters 

And fierce and faint, and frauded of 
its bliss. 

I will not weep. I will not in the night 
Weep or lament, or, bending on my 

knees, 
Appeal for pity! In the clustered 
trees 
The wind is boasting of its one delight; 
And I will boast of mine, in thy despite, 
And say I love thee more than all of 
these. 

The rose in bloom, the linnet as it sings, 
The fox, the fawn, the cygnet on the 

mere, 
The dragon-fly that glitters like a 
spear, — 
All these, and more, all these ecstatic 
things, 

42 



of a Violinist Hr 

Possess their mates; and some arrive on 
wings, 
And some on webs, to make their 
meanings clear. 

Yea, all these things, and more than I 
can tell, 
More than the most we know of, one 

and all, 
Do talk of Love. There is no other 
call 
From wind to wave, from rose to aspho- 
del, 
Than Love's alone — the things we can- 
not quell, 
Do what we will, from font to 
funeral. 

What have I done, I only on the earth, 
That I should wait a century for a 
word? 

43 



«$H Love Letters 

A hundred years, I know, have been 
deferr'd 
Since last we met, and then it was in 

dearth 
Of gladsome peace; for, in a moment's 
girth, 
My shuddering soul was wounded 
like a bird. 

I knew thy voice. I knew the veering 
sound 
Of that sweet oracle which once did 

tend 
To treat me grandly, as we treat a 
friend ; 
And I would know 't if darkly under- 
ground 
I lay as dead, or, down among the 
drown'd, 
I blindly stared, unvalued to the end. 
44 



of a Violinist f# 

There! take again the kiss I took from 
thee 
Last night in sleep. I met thee in a 

dream 
And drew thee closer than a monk 
may deem 
Good for the soul. I know not how it 

be, 
But this I know: if God be good to me 
I shall be raised again to thine es- 
teem. 

I touched thy neck. I kiss'd it. I was 
bold. 
And bold am I to-day, to call to 

mind 
How, in the night, a murmur not un- 
kind, 
Broke on mine ear; a something new 
and old 

45 



#1 Love Letters 

Quick in thy breath, as when a tale is 
told 
Of some great hope with madness in- 
tertwined. 

And round my lips, in joy and yet in 
fear, 
There seemed to dart the stings of 

kisses warm. 
These were my honey-bees, and soon 
would swarm 
To choose their queen. But ere they 

did appear, 
I heard again that murmur in mine ear 
Which seem'd to speak of calm before 
a storm. 

" What is it, love ? " I whispered in 
my sleep, 
And turned to thee, as April unto 
May. 

46 



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" Art mine in truth, mine own, by 
night and day, 
Now and for ever ? " And I heard thee 

weep, 
And then persuade; and then my soul 
did leap 
Swiftly to thine, in love's ecstatic 
sway. 

I fondled thee! I drew thee to my 
heart, 
Well knowing in the dark that joy 

is dumb. 
And then a cry, a sigh, a sob, did 
come 
Forth from thy lips. ... I waken'd, 

with a start, 
To find thee gone. The day had taken 
part 
Against the total of my blisses' sum. 
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#4 Love Letters 



LETTER FIFTH 

CONFESSIONS 

O Lady mine! O Lady of my Life! 
Mine and not mine, a being of the 

sky 
Turn'd into Woman, and I know not 
why — 
Is't well, bethink thee, to maintain a 

strife 
With thy poor servant? War unto the 
knife, 
Because I greet thee with a lover's 



Is't well to visit me with thy disdain, 
And rack my soul, because, for love 

of thee, 
I was too prone to sink upon my knee, 
48 



of a Violinist ^ 

And too intent to make my meaning 

plain, 
And too resolved to make my loss a gain 
To do thee good, by Love's immortal 

plea? 

O friend! forgive me for my dream of 
bliss. 
Forgive: forget; be just! Wilt not 

forgive ? 
Not though my tears should fall, as 
through a sieve 
The salt sea-sand ? What joy hast thou 

in this: 
To be a maid, and marvel at a kiss? 
Say! Must I die, to prove that I can 
live? 

Shall this be so? E'en this? And all 
my love 

49 



## Love Letters 

Wreck'd in an instant? No, a gentle 

heart 
Beats in thy bosom; and the shades 
depart 
From all fair gardens, and from skies 

above, 
When thou art near. For thou art like 
a dove, 
And dainty thoughts are with thee 
where thou art. 

Oh! it is like the death of dearest kin, 
To wake and find the fancies of the 

brain 
Sear'd and confused. We languish 
in the strain 
Of some lost music, and we find within, 
Deep in the heart, a record of a sin, 
The thrill thereof, and all the bliss- 
ful pain. 

So 



of a Violinist H£ 

For it is deadly sin to love too well, 
And unappeased, unhonour'd, unbe- 

sought, 
To feed on dreams; and yet 'tis aptly 
thought 
That all must love. E'en those who 

most rebel 
In Eros' camp have known his master- 
spell ; 
And more shall learn than Eros yet 
has taught. 

But I am mad to love. I am not wise. 
I am the worst of men to love the 

best 
Of all sweet women! An untimely 
jest, 
A thing made up of rhapsodies and 
sighs, 



5i 



•SH Love Letters 

And unordained on earth, and in the 
skies, 
And undesired in tumult and in rest. 

All this is true. I know it. I am he. 
I am that man. I am the hated 

friend 
Who once received a smile, and 
sought to mend 
His soul with hope. O tyrant! by the 

plea 
Of all thy grace, do thou accept from me 
At least the notes that know not to 
offend. 

See! I will strike again the major chord 
Of that great song, which in his early 

days, 
Beethoven wrote; and thine shall be 
the praise, 

52 



of a Violinist H£ 

And thine the frenzy like a soldier's 

sword 
Flashing therein; and thine, O thou 

adored 
And bright true Lady! all the poet's 

lays. 

To thee, to thee, the songs of all my joy, 
To thee the songs that wildly seem to 

bless, 
And those that mind thee of a past 
caress. 
Lo ! with a whisper to the Winged Boy 
Who rules my fate, I will my strength 
employ 
To make a matin-song of my distress. 

But playing thus, and toying with the 
notes, 
I half forget the cause I have to 
weep; 

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#4 Love Letters 

And, like a reaper in the realms of 
sleep, 
I hear the bird of morning where he 

floats 
High in the welkin and in fairy boats 
I see the minstrels sail upon the 
deep. 

In mid-suspension of my leaping bow 

I almost hear the silence of the night; 

And, in my soul, I know the stars 

are bright 

Because they love, and that they 

nightly glow 
To make it clear that there is nought 
below, 
And nought above, so fair as Love's 
delight. 

But shall I touch thy heart by speech 
alone, 

54 



of a Violinist £# 



Without Amati? 


Shall I prove, by 


words, 




That hope is meant for men as well 


as birds; 




That I would take 


a scorpion, or a 


stone, 




In lieu of gold, and 


sacrifice a throne 


To be the keeper 


of thy flocks and 


herds? 




Ah no, my Lady! 1 


zhough I sang to 


thee 




With fuller voice 


! than sings the 


nightingale — 




Fuller and softer 


in the moonlight 


pale 




Than lays of Keats, 


or Shelley, or the 


free 




And fire-lipp'd Byron — there would 


come to me 




55 





#4 Love Letters 

No word of thine to thank me for 
the tale. 

Thou would'st not heed. Thou would'st 
not any-when, 
In bower or grove — or in the holy 

nook 
Which shields thy bed — thou 
would'st not care to look 
For thoughts of mine, though faithful 

in their ken 
As are the minds of England's fighting 
men 
When they inscribe their names in 
Honour's book. 

Thou would'st not care to scan my face, 
and through 
This face of mine, the soul, for scraps 
of thought. 

56 



of a Violinist H£ 

Yet 'tis a face that somewhere has been 
taught 
To smile in tears. Mine eyes are some- 
what blue 
And quick to flash (if what I hear be 
true) 
And dark, at times, as velvet newly 
wrought. 

But wilt thou own it? Wilt thou in 
the scroll 
Of my sad life, perceive, as in a hive, 
A thousand happy fancies that con- 
trive 
To seek thee out? Thy bosom is the 

goal 
Of all my thoughts, and quick to thy 
control 
They wend their way, elate to be 
alive. 

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#4 Love Letters 

But there is something I could never 
bring 
My soul to compass. No! could I 

compel 
Thy plighted troth, I would not have 
thee tell 
A lie to God. I'll have no wedding- 
ring 
With loveless hands around my neck to 
cling ; 
For this were worse than all the fires 
of hell. 

I would not take thee from a lover's 
lips, 
Or from the rostrum of a roaring 

crowd, 
Or from the memory of a husband's 
shroud, 
Or from the goblet where a Caesar sips. 



of a Violinist £# 

I would not touch thee with my finger- 
tips, 
But I would die to serve thee, — and 
be proud. 

And could I enter Heaven, and find 
therein, 
In all the wide dominions of the air, 
No trace of thee among the natives 
there, 
I would not bide with them — No! not 

to win 
A seraph's lyre — but I would sin a sin, 
And free my soul, and seek thee 
otherwhere ! 



59 



#? Love Letters 



LETTER SIXTH 

DESPAIR 

I am undone. My hopes have beggar' d 
me, 
For I have lov'd where loving was 

denied. 
To-day is dark, and Yesterday has 
died, 
And when To-morrow comes, erect and 

free, 
Like some great king, whose tyrant will 
he be, 
And whose defender in the days of 
pride ? 

I am not cold, and yet November bands 
Compress my heart. I know the 
month is May, 
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of a Violinist Hr 

And that the sun will warm me if I 
stay. 
But who is this ? Oh, who is this that 

stands 
Straight in my path, and with his bony 
hands 
Appeals to me to turn some other 



It is the phantom of my murder'd joy, 
Which once again has come to perse- 
cute, 
And tell me the tales which late I did 
refute. 
But lo! I now must heed them, as a 

boy 
Takes up, in tears, the remnants of a toy, 
Or bard forlorn the fragments of a 
lute. 



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#4 Love Letters 

It is the ghost that, day by day, did come 
To tempt my spirit to the mountain- 



It is the thing that wept, and would 
not speak, 
And, with a sign, to show that it was 

dumb, 
Did seem to hint at Death that was the 
sum 
Of all we know, and all we strive to 
seek. 

And now it comes again, and with its eye 
Bloodshot and blear, though pallid in 

its face, 
Doth point, exacting, to the very place 
Where I do keep, that no one may descry, 
A lady's glove, a ribbon, and a dry, 
A perjur'd rose, which oft I did em- 
brace. 

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of a Violinist H£ 

It means, perchance, that I must make 
an end 
Of all these things, and burn them as 

a fee 
To my Despair, when down upon my 
knee. 
O piteous thing! have pity; be my 

friend ; 
Or say, at least, that blessings will 
descend 
On her I love, on her if not on me ! 

The Shape did smile; and, wildly, with 
a start, 
Did shrivel up, as when a fire is spent, 
Whereof the smoke obscured the firm- 
ament. 
And then I knew it had but tried my 

heart, 
To teach me how to play a manly part, 

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#1 Love Letters 

And strengthen me in all my good in- 
tent. 

And here I stand alone, e'en like a leaf 
In sudden frost, as quiet as the wing 
Of wounded bird, which knows it can- 
not sing. 
A child may moan, but not a mountain 

chief. 
If we be sad, if we possess a grief, 
The grief should be the slave, and not 
the king. 

Yes, I will pause, and pluck from out the 
Past 
The full discernment of my sorry 

cheer, 
And why the sunlight seems no longer 
clear, 
And why, in spite of anguish, and the 
vast, 



of a Violinist £# 

The sickly blank that o'er my life is cast, 
I cannot kneel to-day, or shed a tear. 

It was thy friendship. It was this I 
had, 
This and no more. I was a fool to 

.doubt, 
I was a fool to strive to put to rout 
My many foes : — thy musings tender- 
glad, 
Which all had said : — " Avoid him ! he 
is mad — 
Mad with his love, and Love's erratic 
shout." 

I should have known, — I should have 
guess'd in time, — 
That, like a soft mirage at twilight 

hour, 
My dream would melt, and rob me of 
its dower. 

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iH Love Letters 

I should have guess'd that all the heights 

sublime, 
Which look'd like spires and cities built 

in rhyme, 
Would droop and die, like petals from 

a flower. 

I should have known, indeed, that to the 
brave 
All things are servants. But my lost 

Delight 
Was like the ship that founders in a 
night, 
And leaves no mark. How then? Is 

Passion's grave 
All that is left beside the sobbing wave? 
The foam thereof, the saltness, and 
the blight? 

I had a fleet of ships, and where are 
they? 

66 



of a Violinist H£ 

Where are they all? and where the 

merchandise 
I treasured once — an empire's golden 
prize, 
The empire of a soul, which, in a day, 
Lost all its wealth? I was deceiv'd, I 
say, 
For I had reckon'd on propitious skies. 

I look'd afar, and saw no sign of wrack. 
I look'd anear, and felt the summer 

breeze 
Warm on my cheek; and forth upon 
the seas 
I sent my ships; and would, not have 

them back, 
Though some averr'd a storm was on the 
track 
Of all I lov'd, and all I own'd of 
these. 

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#? Love Letters 

One ship was " Joy," the second 
" Truth," the third 
" Love in a Dream," and, last not 

least of all, 
" Hope," and " Content," and " Pride 
that hath a Fall." 
And they were goodly vessels, by my 

word, 
With sails as strong as pinions of a bird, 
And crew that answer'd well to 
Duty's call. 

In one of these — in " Hope " — where 
I did fly 
A lofty banner, — in this ship I 

found 
Doom's-day at last, and all my crew 
were drown'd. 
Yes, I was wreck' d in this, and here I 
lie, 

68 



of a Violinist Hr 

Here on the beach, forlorn and like to 
die, 
With none to pray for me on holy 
ground. 

O sweet my Lady! If thou pass this 

way, 

And thou behold me where I lie beset 

By wind and wave, and powerless to 

forget, 

Wilt not approach me thoughtfully and 

say: — 
" This man was true. He lov'd me 
night and day 
And though I spurn'd at him, he loves 
me yet." 

Wilt not withhold thy blame, at least 
to-night, 
And shed for me a tear, as one may 
grieve 

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#t Love Letters 

For people known in books, for men 
who weave 
Ropes out of sand, to lead them to the 

light? 
Oh! treat me thus, and, by thy hand so 
white, 
I will forego the dreams to which I 
cleave. 

Be just to me, and say, when all is o'er, 
When some such book is calmly laid 

aside : 
" The shadow-men have liv'd and 
lov'd and died ; 
The shadow-women will be vexed no 

more. 
But there is One for whom my heart is 
sore, 
Because he took a shadow for his 
guide." 

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of a Violinist ^ 

Say only this ; but pray for me withal, 
And let a pitying thought possess thee 

then, 
Whether at home, at sea, or in a glen 
In some wild nook. It were a joy to fall 
Dead at thy feet, as at a trumpet's call, 
For I should then be peerless among 
men! 



7i 



#| Love Letters 



LETTER SEVENTH 

HOPE 

tears of mine ! Ye start I know not 

why, 
Unless, indeed, to prove that I am 

glad, 
Albeit fast wedded to a thought so 

sad 

1 scarce can deem that my despair will 

die, 
Or that the sun, careering up the sky, 
Will warm again a world that seem'd 
so mad. 

And yet, who knows ? The world is, to 
the mind, 
Much as we make it; and the things 
we tend 

72 



of a Violinist ?# 

Wear, for the nonce, the liveries that 
we lend. 
And some such things are fair, though 

ill-defined, 
And some are scathing, like the wintry 
wind ; 
And some begin, and some will never 
end. 

How can I think, ye tears! that I have 
been 
The thing I was — so doubting, so 

unfit, 
And so unblest, with brows for ever 
knit, 
And hair unkempt, and face becoming 

lean 
And cold and pale, as if I late had seen 
Medusa's head, and all the scowls of 
it? 

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#* Love Letters 

Oh, why is this ? Oh, why have I so 
long 
Brooded on grief, and made myself a 

bane 
To golden fields and all the happy 
plain 
Where once I met the Lady of my 

Song, 
The lady for whose sake I shall be 
strong, 
But never weak or diffident again? 

I was too shorn of hope. I did em- 
ploy 
Words like a mourner; and to Her I 

bow'd, 
As one might kneel to Glory in its 
shroud. 
But I am crown'd to-day, and not so 
coy — 

74 



of a Violinist S# 

Crown'd with a kiss, and sceptred with a 

joy; 

And all the world shall see that I am 
proud. 

I shall be sated now. I shall receive 
More than the guerdon of my wildest 

thought, 
More than the most that ecstasy has 
taught 
To saints in Heaven; and more than 

poets weave 
In madcap verse, to warn us, or deceive; 
And more than Adam knew ere Eve 
was brought. 

I know the meaning now of all the signs, 
And all the joys I dreamt of in my 

dreams. 
I realize the comfort of the streams 
75 



#1 Love Letters 

When they reflect the shadows of the 
pines. 

I know that there is hope for celan- 
dines, 
And that a tree is merrier than it 
seems. 

I know the mighty hills have much 
to tell; 
And that they quake, at times, in 

undertone, 
And talk to stars, because so much 
alone 
And so unlov'd. I know that, in the 

dell, 
Flowers are betroth'd, and that a wed- 
ding-bell 
Rings in the breeze on which a moth 
has flown. 



76 



of a Violinist £# 

I know such things, because to loving 
hearts 
Nature is keen, and pleasures, long de- 

lay'd, 
Quicken the pulse, and turn a truant 
shade 
Into a sprite, equipp'd with all the darts 
That once were Cupid's; and the day de- 
parts, 
And sun and moon conjoin, as man 
with maid. 

The lover knows how grand a thing is 
love, 
How grand, how sweet a thing, and 

how divine 
More than the pouring out of choicest 
wine ; 
More than the whiteness of the whitest 
dove ; 

77 



#4 Love Letters 

More than the glittering of the stars 
above ; 
And such a love, O Love ! is thine and 
mine. 

To me the world, to-day, has grown so 
fair 
I dare not trust myself to think of it. 
Visions of light around me seem to flit, 
And Phoebus loosens all his golden hair 
Right down the sky ; and daisies turn and 
stare 
At things we see not with our human 
wit. 

And here, beside me, there are mosses 
green 
In shelter'd nooks, and gnats in bright 

array, 
And lordly beetles out for holiday; 
78 



of a Violinist H£ 

And spiders small that work in silver 

sheen 
To make a kirtle for the Fairy Queen, 
That she may don it on the First of 

May. 

I hear, in thought, I hear the very 
words 
That Arethusa, turn'd into a brook, 
Spoke to Diana, when her leave she 
took 
Of all she lov'd — low-weeping as the 

birds 
Shrill'd out of tune, and all the 
frightened herds 
Scamper' d to death, in spite of pipe 
and crook. 

I know, to-day, why winds are made to 
sigh 

79 



tH Love Letters 

And why they hide themselves, and 

why they gloat 
In some old ruin ! Mote confers with 
mote, 
And shell with shell ; and corals live and 

die, 
And die and live, below the deep. And 
why ? 
To make a necklace for my lady's 
throat. 

And yet the world, in all its varied 
girth, 
Lacks what we look for. There is 

something base 
In mere existence — something in the 
face 
Of men and women which accepts the 

earth, 
And all its havings, as its right of birth, 
80 



of a Violinist H£ 

But not its quittance, not its resting- 
place. 

There have been moments, at the set of 
sun, 
When I have long'd for wings upon 

the wind, 
That I might seek a planet to my 
mind, 
More full-develop'd than this present 

one; 
With more of scope, when all is said and 
done, 
To satisfy the wants of human kind. 

A world with thee, a home in some 
remote 
And unknown region, which no sage's 

ken 
Has compass'd yet; of which no 
human pen 

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#4 Love Letters 

Has traced the limits; where no terrors 

float 
In wind or wave, and where the soul 

may note 
A thousand raptures unreveaPd to 

men. 

To be transported in a magic car, 

On some transcendent night in early 

June, 
Beyond the horn'd projections of the 
moon; 
To have our being in a bridal star, 
In lands of light, where only angels are, 
Athwart the spaces where the comets 
swoon. 

To be all this : to have in our estate 
Worlds without stint, and quit them 
for the clay 

82 



of a Violinist £# 

Of some new planets where a sum- 
mer's day 
Lasts fifty years; and there to celebrate 
Our Golden Wedding, by the will of 
Fate — 
This were a subject for a seraph's lay. 

This were a life to live, — a life in- 
deed, — 
A thing to die for ; if, in truth, we die 
When we but put our mortal vest- 
ments by. 
This were a climax for a lover's need 
Sweeter than songs, and holier than the 
creed 
Of half the zealots who have sought 
the sky. 



83 



LETTER EIGHTH 

A VISION 

Yes, I will tell thee what, a week ago, 
I dreamt of thee, and all the joy 

therein 
Which I conceiv'd, and all the holy 
din 
Of throbbing music, which appear'd to 

flow 
From room to room, as if to make me 
know 
The power thereof to lead me out of 
sin. 

Methought I saw thee in a ray of light, 
This side a grove — a dream within 
a dream — 

84 



of a Violinist £# 

With eyes of tender pleading, and the 
gleam 
Of far-off summers in thy tresses bright ; 
And I did tremble at the gracious sight, 

As one who sees a naiad in a stream. 

I follow'd thee. I knew that, in the 
wood, 
Where thus we met, there was a tryst- 

ing-place. 
I follow'd thee, as mortals in a chase 
Follow the deer. I knew that it was 

good 
To track thy step, and promptly under- 
stood 
The fitful blush that flutter'd to thy 
face. 

I followed thee to where a brook did 
run 

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-^ Love Letters 

Close to a grot; and there I knelt to 

thee. 
And then a score of birds flew over 
me, — 
Birds which arrived because the day was 

done, 
To sing the Sanctus of the setting sun ; 
And then I heard thy voice upon the 
lea. 

" Follow ! " it cried. I rose and follow'd 
fast; 
And, in my dream, I felt the dream 

was true, 
And that, full soon, Titania, with her 
crew 
Of imps and fays, would meet me on the 

blast. 
But this was hindered; and I quickly 
passed 

86 



of a Violinist H£ 

Into the valley where the cedars 
grew. 

And what a scene, O God! and what 
repose, 
And what sad splendour in the burn- 
ing west : 
A languid sun low-dropping to his 
rest, 
And incense rising, as of old it rose, 
To do him honour at the daylight's 
close, — 
The birds entranced, and all the winds 
repress'd. 

I followed thee. I came to where a 
shrine 
Stood in the trees, and where an oaken 

gate 
Swung in the air, so turbulent of late. 
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-$H Love Letters 

I touch'd thy hand; it quiver'd into 

mine ; 
And then I look'd into thy face benign, 
And saw the smile for which the 
angels wait. 

And lo! the moon had sailed into the 
main 
Of that blue sky, as if therein did 

poise 
A silver boat; and then a tuneful 
noise 
Broke from the copse where late a breeze 

was slain; 
And nightingales, in ecstasy of pain, 
Did break their hearts with singing 
the old joys. 

" Is this the spot? " I cried, " is this the 
spot 



Where I must tell thee all my heart's 

desire ? 
Is this the time when I must drink the 
fire, 
And eat the snow, and find it fever-hot? 
I freeze with heat, and yet I fear it 
not; 
And all my pulses thrill me like a 
lyre." 

A wondrous light was thrown upon thy 

face ; 
It was the light within; it was the 

ray 
Of thine own soul. And then a voice 

did say, 
" Glory to God the King, and Jesu's 

grace 
Here and hereafter!" And about the 

place 

89 



#s Love Letters 

A radiance shone surpassing that of 
day. 

It was thy voice. It was the voice I 
prize 
More than the sound of April in the 

dales, 
More than the songs of larks and 
nightingales, 
And more than teachings of the worldly- 
wise. 
" Glory to God," it said, " for, in the 
skies, 
And here on earth, 'tis He alone 
prevails." 

And then I asked thee : " Shall I tell 
thee now 
All that I think of, when, by land and 
sea, 

90 



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The days and nights illume the world 
for me? 
And how I muse on marriage, as I 

bow 
In God's own places, with a throbbing 
brow? 
And how, at night, I dream of kissing 
thee? " 

But thou did'st answer: "First behold 
this man! 
He is thy lord, for love's and lady's 

sake ; 
He is thy master, or I much mistake." 
And I perceiv'd, hard by, a phantom 

wan 

And wild and kingly, who did, walking, 
span 
The open space that lay beside the 
brake. 

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#? Love Letters 

It was Beethoven. It was he who 
came 
From monstrous shades, to journey yet 

awhile 
In pleasant nooks, and vainly seek the 
smile 
Of one lov'd woman — she to whom his 

fame 
Had been a glory had she sought the 
same, 
And lov'd a soul so grand, so free 
from guile. 

It was the Kaiser of the land of song, 
The giant-singer who did storm the 

gates 
Of Heaven and Hell, a man to whom 
the Fates 
Were fierce as furies, and who suffer'd 
wrong 

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And ached and bore it, and was brave 
and strong, 
But gaunt as ocean when its rage 
abates. 

I knew his tread. I knew him by his 
look 
Of pent-up sorrow — by his hair un- 
kempt 
And torn attire — and by his smile 
exempt 
From all but pleading. Yet his body 

shook 
With some great joy; and onward he 
betook 
His echoing steps the way that I had 
dreamt. 

I bow'd my head. The lordly being 
pass'd. 

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#3 Love Letters 

He was my king, and I did bow to 

him. 
And when I rais'd mine eyes they were 
as dim 
As tears could make them. And the 

moon, aghast, 
Glared in the sky ; and westward came a 
blast 
Which shook the earth like shouts of 
cherubim. 

I held my breath. I could have fled 
the place, 
As men have fled before the wrath of 

God, 
But I beheld my Lady where she 
trod 
The darken'd path; and I did cry. apace: 
" Help me, my Lady! " and thy lustrous 
face 

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Gladden'd the air, and quicken'd all 
the sod. 

Then did I hear again that voice of 
cheer. 
" Lovest thou me," it said, " or music 

best? " 
I seized thy hand, I drew thee to my 
breast. 
"Thee, only thee!" I cried. "From 

year to year, 
Thee, only thee — not fame!" And 
silver-clear, 
Thy voice responded : " God will 
grant the rest." 

I kiss'd thine eyes. I kiss'd them where 
the blue 
Peep'd smiling forth; and proudly as 
before 

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•£H Love Letters 

I heard the tones that thrill'd me to 
the core. 
"If thou love me," they said, " if thou 

be true, 
Thou shalt have fame, and love, and 
music too ! " 
Entranced I kiss'd the lips that I 
adore. 



of a Violinists 



LETTER NINTH 

TO - MORROW 

O Love! O Love! O Gateway of De- 
light! 
Thou porch of peace, thou pageant of 

the prime 
Of all God's creatures! I am here to 
climb 
Thine upward steps, and daily and by 

night 
To gaze beyond them, and to search 
aright 
The far-off splendour of thy track 
sublime. 

For, in thy precincts, on the further side, 
Beyond the turret where the bells are 
rung, 

97 



#4 Love Letters 

Beyond the chapel where the rites 
are sung, 
There is a garden fit for any bride. 
O Love! by thee, by thee are sanctified 
The joys thereof to keep our spirits 
young. 

By thee, dear Love! by thee, if all be 
well — 
And we be wise enough to own the 

touch 
Of some bright folly that has thrill'd 
us much — 
By thee, till death, we may regain the 

spell 
Of wizard Merlin, and in every dell 
Confront a Muse, and bow to it as 
such. 

Love ! Happy Love ! Behold me where 
I stand 

98 



of a Violinist £# 

This side thy portal, with my strain- 
ing eyes 
Turn'd to the Future. Cloudless are 
the skies, 
And, far adown the road which thou hast 

spann'd, 
I see the groves of that elected land 
Which is the place I call my paradise. 

But what is this ? The plains are known 
to me ; 
The hills are known, the fields, the 

little fence, 
The noisy brook as clear as innocence, 
And this old oak, the wonder of the 

lea, 
Which stops the wind to know if there 
shall be 
Sorrow for men, or pride, or recom- 
pense. 

99 



^__ _— m m 



£H Love Letters 

I know these things, yet hold it little 
blame 
To know them not, though in their 

proud array, 
The flowers advance to make the 
world so gay. 
Ah, what a change ! The things I know 

by name 
Look unfamiliar all, and, like a flame, 
The roses burn upon the hedge to-day. 

The grass is velvet. There are pearls 
thereon, 
And golden signs, and braid that doth 

appear 
Made for a bridal. This is fairy gear 
If I mistake not. I shall know anon. 
Nature herself will teach me how to con 
The new-found words to thank the 
glowing year. 

IOQ 



of a Violinist £# 

This is the path that led me to the 
brook ; 
And this the mead and this the 

mossy slope, 
And this the place where breezes did 
elope 
With giddy moths, enamour'd of a look ; 
And here I sat alone, or with a book, 
Dreaming the dreams of constancy and 
hope. 

I loved the river well; but not till now 
Did I perceive the marvels of the 

shore. 
This is a cave, and this an emerald 
floor ; 
And here Sir Eglantine might make a 

vow, 
And here a king, a guilty king, might 
bow 



#S Love Letters 

Before a child, and break his word no 
more. 

The day is dying. I shall see him die, 
And I shall watch the sunset, and the 

red 
Of all that splendour when the day is 
dead. 
And I shall see the stars upon the sky, 
And think them torches that are lit on 
high 
To light the Lord Apollo to his bed. 

And sweet To-morrow, like a golden 
bark, 
Will call for me, and lead me on apace 
To where I shall behold, in all her 
grace, 
Mine own true Lady, whom a happy 
lark 



of a Violinist H£ 

Did late salute, appointing, after dark, 
A nightingale to carol in his place. 

Oh, come to me! Oh, come, beloved 
day, 

sweet To-morrow! Youngest of 
the sons 

Of old King Time, to whom Creation 
runs 
As men to God. Oh, quickly with thy 

ray 
Anoint my head, and teach me how to 
pray, 
As gentle Jesus taught the little ones. 

I am aweary of the waiting hours, 

1 am aweary of the tardy night, 
The hungry moments rob me of de- 
light, 

The crawling minutes steal away my 
powers ; 

103 



■SH Love Letters 

And I am sick at heart, as one who 
cowers, 
In lonely haunts, remov'd from human 
sight. 

How shall I think the night was meant 
for sleep, 
When I must count the dreadful hours 

thereof, 
And cannot beat them down, or bid 
them doff 
Their hateful masks? A man may wake 

and weep 
From hour to hour, and, in the silence 
deep, 
See shadows move, and almost hear 
them scoff. 

Oh, come to me, To-morrow! like a 
friend, 

104 



of a Violinist £# 

And not as one who bideth for the 

clock. 
Be swift to come, and I will hear 

thee knock, 
And though the night refuse to make an 

end 
Of her dull peace, I promptly will 

descend 
And let thee in, and thank thee for the 

shock. 

Dear, good To-morrow! in my life, till 
now, 
I did not think to need thee quite so 

soon. 
I did not think that I should hate the 
moon, 
Or new or old, or that my fevered 

brow 
Requir'd the sun to cool it. I will bow 
105 



#4 Love Letters 

To this new day, that he may grant 
the boon. 

Yes, 'twill consent. The day will dawn 
at last. 
Day and the tide approach. They 

cannot rest. 
They must approach. They must by 
every test , 

Of all men's knowledge, neither slow 

nor fast, 
Approach and front us. When the night 
is past, 
The morrow's dawn will lead me to 
my quest. 

Then shall I tremble greatly, and be 
glad, 
For I shall meet my true-love all 
alone, 

1 06 



of a Violinist $# 

And none shall tell me of her dainty 
zone, 
And none shall say how sweetly she is 

clad; 
But I shall know it. Men may call me 
mad; 
But I shall know how bright the 
world has grown. 

There is a grammar of the lips and 
eyes, 
And I have learnt it. There are 

tokens sure 
Of trust in love; and I have found 
them pure. 
Is love the guerdon then? Is love the 

prize ? 
It is! It is! We find it in the skies, 
And here on earth 'tis all that will 
endure. 

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#1 Love Letters 

All things for love. All things in some 
divine 
And wish'd for way, conspire, as Na- 
ture knows, 
To some great good. Where'er a 
daisy grows 
There grows a joy. The forest-trees 

combine 
To talk of peace when mortals would 
repine ; 
And he is false to God who flouts the 
rose. 



108 



of a Violinist • 



LETTER TENTH 

A RETROSPECT 

I walk again beside the roaring sea, 
And once again I harken to the speech 
Of waves exulting on the madden'd 
beach. 
A sound of awful joy it seems to me, 
A shuddering sound of God's eternity, — 
Telling of things beyond the sage's 
reach. 

I walk alone. I see the bounding waves 
Curl'd into foam. I watch them as 

they leap 
Like wild sea-horses loosen' d from 
the deep. 
And well I know that they have seen 
the graves 

109 



•SH Love Letters 

Of shipwreck'd sailors; for Disaster 
paves 
The fearful fields where reapers 
cannot reap. 

Out there, in islands where the summer 
sun 
Goes down in tempest, there are loath- 
some things 
That crawl to shore, and flap un- 
sightly wings. 
But here there are no monsters that can 

run 
To catch the limbs of bathers; no! 
not one; 
And here the wind is harmless when 
it stings. 

There is a glamour all about the bay, 
As if the nymphs of Greece had tar- 
ried here. 

no 



The sands are golden, and the rocks 
appear 
Crested with silver ; and the breezes play- 
Snatches of song they hummed when far 
away, 
And then are hush'd, as if from sud- 
den fear. 

They think of thee. They hunt; they 
meditate. 
They will not quit the shore till they 

have seen 
The very spot where thou did'st stand 
serene 
In all thy beauty; and of me they 

prate, 
Knowing I love thee. And, like one 
elate, 
The grand old sea remembers what 
hath been. 



«$H Love Letters 

How many hours, how many days we 
met 
Here on the beach, in that delirious 

time 
When all the waves appear'd to 
break in rhyme. 
Life was a joy, and love was like a 

debt 
Paid and repaid in kisses — good to get, 
And good to lose — unhoarded, yet 
sublime. 

We wander'd here. We saw the tide 
advance, 
We saw it ebb. We saw the widow'd 

shore 
Waiting for Ocean with its organ 
roar, 
Knowing that, day by day, through 
happy chance, 



of a Violinist *# 

She would be wooed anew, amid the 
dance 
Of bridal waves, high-bounding as be- 
fore. 

And I remember how, at flush of morn, 
Thou did'st depart alone, to find a 

nook 
Where none could see thee; where a 
lover's look 
Were profanation worse than any scorn ; 
And how I went my way, among the 
corn, 
To wait for thee beside the Shepherd's 
brook. 

And lo! from out a cave thou did'st 
emerge, 
Sweet as thyself, the flower of 
Womankind. 

"3 



iH Love Letters 

I know 'twas thus: for, in my secret 
mind, 
I see thee now. I see thee in the surge 
Of those wild waves, well knowing that 
they urge 
Some idle wish, untalk'd-of to the 
wind. 

I think the beach was thankful to have 
known 
Thy warm, white body, and the 

blessedness 
Of thy first shiver; and I well can 
guess 
How, when thy limbs were toss'd and 

overthrown, 
The sea was pleased, and every smallest 
stone, 
And every wave, was proud of thy 
caress. 

114 



of a Violinist £# 

A maiden diving, with dishevell'd hair, 
Sheer from a rock ; a syren of the deep 
Call'd into action, ere a wave could 
leap 
Breast-high to daunt her; Daphne, by a 

prayer, 
Lured from a forest for the sea to 
bear — 
This were a dream to fill a poet's 
sleep. 

This were a thing for Phoebus to have 
eyed; 
And he did eye it. Yea, the Deathless 

One 
Did eye thy beauty. It was madly 
done. * 

He saw thee in the rising of the tide. 
He saw thee well. The truth is not de- 
nied; 

"5 



#4 Love Letters 

The shore was proud to show thee to 
the sun. 

Never since Venus, at a god's decree, 
Uprose from ocean, fias there lived on 

earth 
A face like thine, a form of so much 
worth ; 
And nowhere has the moon-obeying sea 
Known such perfection, down from 
head to knee, 
And knee to foot, since that Olympian 
birth. 

And, sooth, the moon was anxious to 
have placed 
Her head beside thee, on the waters 

bright. 
But she was foil'd; for thou so late 
at night 

116 



of a Violinist £# 

Wouldst not go forth: no! not to be 

embraced 
By Nature's Queen, though, round 

about the waist, 
She would have ring'd thee with her 

softest light. 

Ah me! had I a lute of sovereign 
power 
I would enlarge on this, and plainly 

show 
That there is nothing like thee here 
below, — 
Nothing so comely, nothing in its dower 
Of youth and grace, so like a human 
flower, 
And white withal, and guiltless as the 
snow. 

For thou art fair as lilies, with the 
flush 

117 



## Love Letters 

That roses have while waiting for a 

kiss; 
And when thou smilest nothing comes 
amiss ; 
The earth is glad to see thy dimpled 

blush. 
Had I the lute of Orpheus I would hush 
All meaner sounds to tell the stars of 
this. 

I would, I swear, by Pallas' own con- 
sent, 
Inform all creatures whom the stars 

behold 
That thou art mine, and that a pen 
of gold, 
With ink of fire, though by an angel 

lent, 
Were all too poor to tell my true con- 
tent, 

118 



of a Violinist Ht 

And how I love thee seven times 
seventy fold. 

And sure am I that, in the ancient days, 
Achilles heard no voice so passing 

sweet, 
And none so trancing none that could 
compete 
With thine for fervour; none in watery 

ways 
Where Neptune dwelt, so worthy of the 
praise 
Of Thetis' son, the sure and swift of 
feet. 

He never met upon the plains of Troy 
Goddess or maiden so divinely 

fraught. 
Not Helen's self, for whom the Tro- 
jans fought, 

119 



Was like to thee. Her love had much 

alloy, 
But thine has none. Her beauty was a 

toy, 
But thine's a gem, unsullied and un- 

bought. 

And ne'er was seen by poet, in a sweven, 
An eye like thine, a face so fair to 

see 
As that which makes the sunlight 
sweet to me. 
Nor need I wait for death, or for the 

levin 
In yonder cloud, to find the path to 
Heaven. 
It fronts me here. 'Tis manifest in 
thee! 



of a Violinist ^ 



LETTER ELEVENTH 

FAITH 

Now will I sing to God a song of 
praise, 
And thank the morning for the light 

it brings, 
Ay! and the earth for every flower 
that springs, 
And every tree that, in the jocund days, 
Thrills to the blast. My voice I will 
upraise 
To thank the world for every bird 
that sings. 

I will unpack my mind of all its fears. 
I will advance to where the matin 
fires 



Absorb the hills. My hopes and my 
desires 
Will lead me safe; and day will have 

no tears 
And night no torture, as in former 
years, 
To warp my nature when my soul 
aspires. 

I will endure. I will not strive to 
peep 
Behind the barriers of the days to 

come, 
Nor, adding up the figures of a sum, 
Dispose of prayers as men dispose of 

sleep. 
I cannot count the stars, or walk the 
deep ; 
But I can pray, and Faith shall not be 
dumb. 

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I take myself and thee as mine estate — 
Thee and myself. The world is 

centred there. 
If thou be well I know the skies are 
fair; 
If not, they press me down with leaden 

weight, 
And all is dark; and morning comes 
too late; 
And all the birds are tuneless in the 
air. 

I need but thee: thee only. Thou alone 
Art all my joy: a something to the 

sight 
As grand as Silence, and as snowy 
white. 
And do thou pardon if I make it known, 
As oft I do, with mine Amati's tone, 
Amid the stillness of the starry night. 
123 



#5 Love Letters 

Oh, give me pity of thy heart and 
mind, 
Mine own sweet Lady, if I vex thee 

now. 
If the repeating of my constant vow 
Be undesired, have pity! I were blind, 
And deaf and dumb, and mad, were I 
inclined 
To curb my feelings when to thee I 
bow. 

Forgive the challenge of my longing 
lips 
If these offend thee; and forgive me, 

too, 
If I perceive, within thine eyes of 
blue, 

More than I utter — more than, in 
eclipse, 

124 



of a Violinist g# 

A man may note atween the argent 
tips 
Of frighted Dian whom the Fates 
pursue. 

It is the thing I dream of; 'tis the 
thing 
We know as rapture, when, with 

sudden thrill, 
It snares the heart and subjugates 
the will; 
I mean the pride, the power, by which 

we cling 
To natures nobler than the ones we 
bring, 
To keep entire the fire we cannot chill. 

Coyest of nymphs, my Lady! whom I 
seek 
As sailors seek salvation out at sea, 

!25 



■SH Love Letters 

And poets fame, and soldiers vic- 
tory, 
Behold! I note the blush upon thy 

cheek, 
The flag of truce that tells me thou are 
meek 
And soon wilt yield thy fortress up 
to me. 

It is thy soul ; it is thy soul in arms 
Which thus I conquer. All thy 

furtive sighs, 
And all the glances of thy wistful 
eyes, 
Proclaim the swift surrender of thy 

charms. 
I kiss thy hand ; and tremors and alarms 
Discard, in parting, all their late 
disguise. 

126 



They were not foes. They knew me, 
one and all; 
They knew I lov'd thee, and they 

lured me on 
To try my fortune, and to wait 
thereon 
For just reward. The scaling of the 

wall 
Was not the meed; there came the 
festival, 
And now there comes the crown that 
I must don. 

O my Beloved ! I am king of thee, 
And thou my queen; and I will wear 

the crown 
A little moment, for thy love's 
renown. 
Yea, for a moment, it shall circle me, 

127 



<$H Love Letters 

And then be thine, so thou, upon thy 
knee, 
Do seek the same, with all thy tresses 
down. 

For woman still is mistress of the man, 
Though man be master. 'Tis the 

woman's right 
To choose her king, and crown him 
in her sight, 
And make him feel the pressure of the 

span 
Of her soft arms, as only woman can; 
For, with her weakness, she excels 
his might. 

It is her joy indeed to be so frail 
That he must shield her ,* he of all the 
world 

128 



of a Violinist *# 

Whom most she loves; and then, if 
he be hurl'd 
To depths of sorrow, she will more 

avail 
Than half a senate. Troubles may 
assail, 
But she will guide him by her lips 
impearl'd. 

A woman clung to Caesar; he was 
great, 
And great the power he gain'd by sea 

and land. 
But when he wrong'd her, when he 
spurn' d the hand 
Which once he knelt to, when he scofFd 

at Fate, 
Glory dispers'd, and left him desolate; 
For God remember'd all that first was 
plann'd. 

129 



#=1 Love Letters 

The cannon's roar, the wisdom of the 
sage, 
The strength of armies, and the thrall 

of kings — 
All these are weak compared to 
weaker things. 
Napoleon fell because, in puny rage, 
He wrong' d his house ; and earth became 
a cage 
For this poor eagle with his batter'd 
wings. 

Believe me, Love! I honour, night and 
day, 
The name of Woman. 'Tis the nobler 

sex. 
Villains may shame it; sorrows may 
perplex ; 
But still 'tis watchful. Man may take 
away 

130 



of a Violinists 

All its possessions, all its worldly sway, 
And yet be worshipp'd by the soul he 
wrecks. 

A word of love to Woman is as sweet 
As nectar'd rapture in a golden bowl; 
And when she quaffs the heavens 
asunder roll, 
And God looks through. And, from 
* his judgment-seat, 
He blesses those who part, and those 
who meet, 
And blesses those who join the links 
of soul with soul. 

And are there none untrue? God 
knows there are! 
Ay, there are those who learn in 
time the laugh 

131 



#4 Love Letters 

That ends in madness — women who 
for chaff 
Have sold their corn — who seek no 

guiding-star, 
And find no faith to light them from 
afar; 
Of whom 'tis said : " They need no 
epitaph." 

All this is known; but lo! for sake of 
One 
Who lives in glory — for my mother's 

sake, 
For thine, and hers, O Love ! — I 
pity take 
On all poor women. Jesu's will be 

done! 
Honour for all, and infamy for none, 
This side the borders of the burning 
lake. 

132 



of a Violinist H£ 



LETTER TWELFTH 

VICTORY 

Now have I reach'd the goal of my 
desire, 
For thou hast sworn — as sweetly as 

a bell 
Makes out its chime — the oath I love 
to tell, 
The fealty-oath of which I never tire. 
The lordly forest seems a giant's lyre, 
And sings, and rings, the thoughts 
that o'er it swell. 

The air is fill'd with voices. I have 
found 
Comfort at last, enthralment, and a 
joy 

133 



3H Love Letters 

Past all belief; a peace without al- 
loy. 
There is a splendour all about the 

ground 
As if from Eden, when the world was 
drown'd, 
Something had come which death 
could not destroy. 

It seems, indeed, as if to me were sent 
A smile from Heaven — as if to-day 

the clods 
Were lined with silk — the trees 
divining rods, 
And roses gems for some high tourna- 
ment. 
I should not be so proud, or so con- 
tent, 
If I could sup, to-night, with all the 
gods. 

134 



of a Violinist H£ 

A shrined saint would change his place 
with me 
If he but knew the worth of what I 

feel. 
He is enrobed indeed, and for his 
weal 
Hath much concern; but how forlorn is 

he! 
How pale his pomp ! He cannot sue to 
thee, 
But I am sainted every time I kneel. 

I walk'd abroad, to-day, ere yet the 
dark 
Had left the hills, and down the 

beaten road 
I saunter'd forth a mile from mine 
abode. 
I heard, afar, the watch-dog's sudden 
bark, 

'35 



#4 Love Letters 

And, near at hand, the tuning of a 
lark, 
Safe in its nest, but weighted with an 
ode. 

The moon was pacing up the sky 
serene, 
Pallid and pure, as if she late had 

shown 
Her outmost side, and fear'd to make 
it known; 
And, like a nun, she gazed upon the 

scene 
From bars of cloud that seemed to stand 
between, 
And pray'd and smiled, and smiled 
and pray'd alone. 

The stars had fled. Not one remain'd 
behind 

136 



of a Violinist H£ 

To warm or comfort; or to make 

amends 
For hope delay'd, — for ecstasy that 
ends 
At dawn's approach. The firmament 

was blind 
Of all its eyes ; and, wanton up the wind, 
There came the shuddering that the 
twilight sends. 

The hills exulted at the Morning's 
birth, — 
And clouds assembled, quick, as her- 
alds run 
Before a king to say the fight is won. 
The rich, warm daylight fell upon the 

earth 
Like wine outpour'd in madness, or in 
mirth, 
To celebrate the rising of the sun. 
137 



•SH Love Letters 

And when the soaring lark had done his 
prayer, 
The holy thing, self-poised amid the 

blue 
Of that great sky, did seem, a space 
or two, 
To pause and think, and then did clip 

the air 
And dropped to earth to claim his guer- 
don there. 
"Thank God! " I cried, " My dear- 
est dream is true ! " 

I was too happy, then, to leap and dance ; 
But I could ponder ; I could gaze and 

gaze 
From earth to sky and back to wood- 
land ways. 
The bird had thrill'd my heart, and 
cheer'd my glance, 
138 



of a Violinists 

For he had found to-day his nest- 
romance, 
And lov'd a mate, and crown'd her 
with his praise. 

Love! my Love! I would not for a 

throne, , 
I would not for the thrones of all the 

kings 
Who yet have liv'd, or for a seraph's 

wings, 
Or for the nod of Jove when night hath 

flown, 
Consent to rule an empire all alone. 
No ! I must have the grace of our two 

rings. 

1 must possess thee from the crowning 

curl 
Down to the feet, and from the beam- 
ing eye 

i39 



#1 Love Letters 

Down to the bosom where my treas- 
ures lie. 
From blush to blush, and from the rows 

of pearl 
That light thy smile, I must possess 
thee, girl, 
And be thy lord and master till I 
die. 

This, and no less: the keeper of thy 
fame, 
The proud controller of each silken 

tress, 
And each dear item of thy loveliness, 
And every oath, and every dainty name 
Known to a bride: a picture in a frame 
Of golden hair, to turn to and caress. 

And though I know thee prone, in vacant 
hours, 

140 



of a Violinist f# 

To laugh and talk with those who cir- 
cumvent 

And make mad speeches; though I 
know the bent 
Of some such men, and though in ladies' 

bowers 
They brag of swords — I know my 
proven powers; 

I know myself and thee, and am con- 
tent. 

I know myself; and why should I 
demur? 
The lily, bowing to the breeze's play, 
Is not forgetful of the sun in May. 
She is his nymph, and with a servitor 
She doth but jest. The sun looks down 
at her, 
And knows her true, and loves her 
day by day. 

m 



•SH Love Letters 

E'en so I thee, O Lady of my Heart! 
O Lady white as lilies on the lea, 
And fair as foam upon the ocean free 
Whereon the sun hath sent a shining 

dart! 
E'en so I love thee, blameless as thou art, 
And with my soul's desire I compass 
thee. 

For thou art Woman in the sweetest 
sense 
Of true endowment, and a bride in- 
deed 
Fit for Apollo. This is woman's 
need: 
To be a beacon when the air is dense, '■ 
A bower of peace, a lifelong recom- 
pense — - 
This is the sum of Woman's worldly 
creed. 

142 



of a Violinist H£ 

And what is Man the while? And 
what his will? 
And what the furtherance of his 

earthly hope ? 
To turn to Faith, to turn, as to a 
rope 
A drowning sailor; all his blood to spill 
For One he loves, to keep her out of 
ill — 
This is the will of Man, and this his 
scope. 

'Tis like the tranquil sea, that knows 
anon 
It can be wild, and keep away from 

home 
A thousand ships — and lash itself to 
foam — 
And beat the shore, and all that lies 
thereon — 

i43 



#? Love Letters of a Violinist 

And catch the thunder ere the flash has 
gone 
Forth from the cloud that spans it 
like a dome. 

This is the will of Man, and this is mine. 
But lo! I love thee more than wealth 

or fame, 
More than myself, and more than 
those who came 
With Christ's commission from the goal 

divine. 
Soul of my soul, and mine as I am thine, 
I cling to thee, my Life! as fire to 
flame. 



THE END. 



144 



Remarque Edition of 
Literary Masterpieces 
uniform witH tliis 
volume n« >« v^ v^ 



Sonnets from the Portuguese 

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
Virginibus Puerisque 

By Robert Louis Stevenson. 
Friendship and Love 

By Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
Heroism and Character 

By Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
Poor Richard's Almanac 

By Benjamin Franklin. 
The School for Scandal 

By Sheridan. 
Destruction of Pompeii 

By Pliny and Bulwer. 
Sir Roger de Coverley Papers 

By Addison. 
Thoughts of Marcus Atifelius 

Selections. 
Lord Chesterfield's Letters 

Selections. ' '" , 



#f Remarque Series 



ii Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam 

1 2 Milton 

By Lord Macaulay. 

13 Enoch Arden 

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 

14 Rip Van Winkle and the Legend of 

Sleepy Hollow 
By Washington Irving. 

15 Rochefoucauld's Maxims 

16 Rab and His Friends 

By Dr. John Brown. 

17 She Stoops to Conquer 

By Oliver Goldsmith. 

18 Old Christmas 

By Washington Irving. 

19 Vision of Sir Launfal 

By James Russeli LoweJl 

20 Leaves of Grass 

Selections. By Walt Whitman. 

21 Elegy and Other Poems 

By Thomas Gray. 

22 Sweetness and Light 

By Matthew Arnold. 

23 Golden Thoughts 

By Archbishop Fenelon. 

24 Wit and Wisdom 

By Sidney Smith. 

25 A Christmas Carol 

By Charles Dickens. 

26 Will 6> the Mill and Biographical Sketch 

By R. L. Stevenson. 



Remarque Series !# 



27 Men and Women 

By Robert Browning. 

28 Napoleon Addresses and Anecdotes 

29 Passion in the Desert, and an Episode 

in the Reign of Terror. Selected 
Prose Works of Honore de Balzac 

30 Poems of Sentiment 

By Byron. 

31 Some Fruits of Solitude. Reflections 

and Maxims 
By William Penn. 

32 Letters to a Young Man about Town 

By William Makepeace Thackeray. 

33 Golden Wings. A Prose Romance and 

a Poem 
By William Morris. 

34 Selected Poems 

By John Boyle O'Reilly, 

35 The Discourses of Epictetus 

Selections. 

36 Evangeline 

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

37 The Holy Grail 

By Alfred* Lord Tennyson. 

38 Atala 

By Francois Rene Auguste Chateaubri- 
and. 

39 Armando 

By Edmond and Jules de Gonccurt. 

40 Corsair and Lara 

By Lord Byron. 









#4 Remarque Series 


41 


The Gold Bug 




By Edgar Allan Poe. 


42 


Juliet and Romeo 




From the Italian of Luigi da Porto. 


43 


L'Arlesienne 




By Alphonse Daudet. 


44 


Manon Lescaut. Vol. 1. 




By Abbe Prevost. 


45 


Manon Lescaut. Vol. n. 


4 6 


Paul and Virginia 




By Bernardin de St. Pierre. 


47 


Peter Schlemihl 




By Adelbert von Chamisso. 


48 


Werther 




By J. W. von Goethe. 


49 


Undine 




By Friedrich, Baron de La Motte-Fou» 




que. 


5° 


Tales of a Wayside Inn 




By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


5* 


King of the Golden River, The 




By John Ruskin. 


52 


Love Letters of a Violinist 




, By Eric Mackay. 


53 


Sketches of Young Couples 




By Charles Dickens. 



SEP 13 *90« 



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